


Today, we say farewell—but not goodbye—to a hero…

by civilorange



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Happy Ending, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: CatCo has a pre-written obituary for Supergirl and Cat doesn’t trust anyone else to write it; even five years later. Kara finds her after the most recent near-miss.





	Today, we say farewell—but not goodbye—to a hero…

**Refulgent** , _adjective_ , to shine brightly.

 **Peregrinate** , _verb_ , to travel or wander.

 **Envisage** , _verb_ , to imagine a desirable future.

Your entire adult life has been words on a page. There seems to be a word for everything—from the most basic task, to the most specific circumstance. You can fill whole worlds with just the use of words; using them carefully, and boldly, and with all intent and purpose. You can paint battles, and landscapes, and whole entire forevers with just the careful construct of letters, syllables, and sentences—how were you ever given such a power? This ability to create, and destroy—this ability to quantify and define every action, and feeling, and thought.

But sometimes—you can use words in ways they weren’t intended—you can exaggerate something with a word that seems impossible. “A cacophonous silence”, or “a momentary forever”. You feel what those words mean—a silence so profound, so absolute, its lack of noise is startling, is loud and encompassing. A moment that you wish could go on, and on, and on—outside the constructs of time, outside the idea of a beginning, a middle, and an end. Words grow, and develop—they become what you desire them to be—and sometimes, you find a word that is just perfect. Perfect for _her_.

 **Apricity** , _noun_ , the warmth of the sun in winter.

The pages are on your desk for the second time this month and you try not to see all the words scratched out—all the _almosts_ that were only seconds away from being true.

This most recent _almost_ makes your heart clench, makes every bone ache, and every muscle burn. It’s been five years since Supergirl appeared; since your mild-mannered assistant—turned star reporter—decided she didn’t wish for the obscurity of being someone she truly wasn’t.

Five years of being hopelessly, tearfully, and recklessly in love with a comet—her tail of stardust tangling messily through your fingers as you scratch out yet another _almost_. Her cosmic warmth bleeding through the edges of your life until you can’t imagine the cold before her.

“You’ll be the death of me,” you say softly into the dark. _Her_ , not the minor heart attack last summer. _Her_ , not the maniac who didn’t know how to drive three springs ago. _Her_ , not everything else human and normal in your life.

Her—it always comes back to her.

Most of these don’t require your attention. Most go to junior editors that you trust to be able to do, at least, a minimal amount of research to keep them up-to-date and accurate. You trust interns to know what Queen Elizabeth II has been up to with every year she refuses to die—a stalwart monarch marching through time. You can appreciate it.

You trust them to be impartial as they catalog every misstep and horrible word from the White House’s most important occupant. You trust them to have decorum, and truth, and a little bit of flare—they say a person dies twice. Once with their body, and a second time—much later—when their name is said for the final time.

There’s an inevitability to it all, a cloistering _something_ about knowing there’s an end coming for everyone. How many people thought they would be remembered forever only to have every ounce of their existence burned with the passing of time.

_Today, we say farewell—but not goodbye—to a hero…_

Your computer screen had long since powered off, and your pen has rolled across the desk until it balances on the far edge. You watch it rock—back and forth, to and fro—and wonder what it would take to make it fall. A hit with your knee? A particularly hard exhale? Or would it take nothing? Was it just destined to fall regardless of what you do?

After all, everyone falls.

You’d watched as she fell from the atmosphere—body curved like a drawn bow, the clouds tearing where she plummeted through them. Superman was down—bloody and broken in the rubble, waving off the help of those who had gathered for the clash of titans. And you wonder how he felt—having to look up like everyone else as his cousin fell.

Superman had fallen—he had broken—and Supergirl had stepped in front of him; had spread her arms wide and simply…stood there. She was their last defense, their last protection, and you didn’t need to be there to know she was determined, and rash, and so very beautiful. You’d watched helplessly from your office as you have almost every time before—wondering, dreading, if this would be the final moment.

“Ms. Grant,” she says from your doorway—you’d heard the elevator in the dull silence of the office, something other than the quiet hum of machinery in the dark. Looking up, you see the way her hair curls, the little strands of light snagged through every shade of gold. Her eyes lost behind the bright flare of unneeded glasses.

“Cat.” Something on your face must key her into the change, spur her forward until she’s against the edge of your desk, hitting it negligibly with her hip.

The pen falls.

“What’s wrong?” You wonder if she knows. If she understand how Supergirl isn’t a cape, or a suit—it isn’t heroic, and rescues. It’s the concern, and the love, and everything else she already was but refused to put a name to—so you did it for her. Gave her a name—an excuse—and let her be who she always was to everyone else. And not just you.

Because Kara Danvers had been saving you for years before supergirl showed up.

“I can’t do it anymore,” you say, softly because you don’t want to break this. Because you’re tired, and aching, and your fingers hurt from all the death they’ve written. Her death.

“Do what?” Of course, of course she’d bend down to pick up your pen—of course she’d cradle it in her palm as she tentatively walked around your desk. Placing it in the middle of the papers, she bends just a little to catch your eyes—you’re not looking away, you’re not a coward. You’re just tired. Her eyes are blue, and bright, and everything you might only just have words for. You think you’ve picked a good one—apricity.

“Kill you,” you say, reaching out to touch her cheek like you’ve never really allowed yourself before. She’s soft, and warm, and everything you might be willing to sacrifice everything for—even if she’ll never make you. “I can’t keep killing you.”

Her brows tuck adorably and her smile goes a little washed at the corners, and you want to worry the furrow between her brows away. You want to sooth the uncertainty in the blue of her eyes. You want to tell her that you’ll never let her die in the way you can prevent—the way you had control over. History will remember her—the world could burn, and in the ashes people will have hope because they’ll remember her.

“Them’s the breaks of the beast that is the 24-hour news cycle.” You reach out for the papers on your desk, touching just the edge of this self-imposed torment. “We keep obituaries on hand for people of influence so that when they die, we’re ready. Just send it off to press, case closed.” You see the harsh scratch that was Myriad—letters, and words, and sentences etched out so completely that you can only just make out things that are far too intimate for the public.

She’s turning a page with the barest tip of her fingers, and you let them go—let them slip from beneath your hand and away from you. You can’t do this anymore, you can’t hold this weight and be this person and—you can’t miss her when she’s in the fucking _room_ with you. You can’t remember yesterday with relief, but think of tomorrow with dread.

“This,” you don’t know if she started at the beginning; if her alien eyes can see beneath the hasty mess of black and red ink. “Cat.” She says you name like a statement, like there’s so much woven into just three letters—like you’re supposed to understand everything she isn’t saying. Everything that she keeps inside for some self-imposed greater good.

“I can go back to pretending tomorrow,” you declare, standing up and exhaling. “Tomorrow you can walk into this office and pretend this never happened. Pretend that I don’t know, and that’ll be fine.” You’re alright, you are, even if everything in your chest is burning, and festering, and so beautiful in its destruction. Love is a fool’s errand, and you imagine you’re the biggest clown of all. “But right now? Right now I can’t forget how you fell. I can’t forget that for two days— _two days_ , Kara—I didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”

The worst forty-eight hours of your life. You’d watched her fall from the sky, tumbling bonelessly through the clouds until she was nothing more than an example of physics—terminal velocity, the constant speed of free fall. There’d been no proof of life, no rescue, no grand declaration. Superman had limped off, clutching his bleeding and broken side—you imagine Clark Kent wasn’t going to be into work for a few days—and nothing else.

No mysterious midnight phone call, no promise that she was alright.

Nothing.

So you had sat behind this desk, and written—about how Supergirl changed the world (your world), about how she saved the planet more than her fair share, how she became everything she was meant to be. You’d stayed far past the last employee in the building and written—scratching out words that felt sour and bitter on your tongue.

You’re a writer, mourning every word you put on the page.

And then—like nothing—she walked through the front doors and your heart cracked. Not in two, but a million-billion relieved pieces. In that minute you forgave her the silence, the unknown, the fear—because she was alive.

You didn’t have to kill her.

“Cat,” she’s whispering, and you don’t realize there’s a tear on your cheek, don’t realize that her hands—warm strong hands—are cupping your cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She sounds like she means it, and you wish she could promise you that it’ll never happen again. That, maybe, next time she’ll think of herself. She’ll let humanity get exactly what they deserve—a little ruin, a lot of hurt—and you can just have her.

But you don’t mean it, you can’t mean it.

You kiss her because you can’t look into those too blue eyes—those cosmic constellation filled eyes—without shattering. She gasps, a wet little sound that lets you know she’s crying too. You kiss her like there might not be a tomorrow, like this too will be forgotten. She’s backed up against your desk and you curl fingers tightly into her golden hair until she whines needily into your mouth. Fingers half curled into the fabric of your shirt, fingers skirting up your sides until they hold almost limply at your shoulders.

“Cat,” she says your name against your lips like an epiphany; like some molten desire you’ve only just unearthed, only to realize it’s been simmered below the surface for ages. You bite her lower lip and tug a little at the strands curled around your fingers—she gives, moaning softly, and you feel heady with power. With desire.

“Tomorrow these papers go back into my drawer,” tomorrow, tomorrow—but, right now it’s today, and you’re brave. “In a week, a month—hell, a day—I’ll scratch this out, and it’ll be something else. Aliens, terrorists, metahumans.” You love that she’s noble, love that she’s kind, and selfless, and even that she’s a little sad. You love everything about her, and you want to tell her—want to wake up in the morning and taste the sunlight like you imagine she might.

Smoothing your hands over her shoulders she’s watching you in dazed amazement, eyebrows up with those blue, blue eyes wide. She’s gorgeous like this, you think, cast in the moon’s light, with a little color to her cheeks and a hint of your lipstick on her lips. Tugging at her lapels, you can’t exactly meet her eyes, because if you do you’re going to fall.

Like Icarus you’ll tumble—you’ll fly high, and reckless. Letting the warmth of the sun melt right through your wings. Wax, and feathers, and all that hubris to spare.

But you imagine she’s worth it.

The fall, that is.

Her pastel shirt can’t be straightened any more than it already is, her collar can’t be fixed, and there’s nothing left for you to do with your hands. Nothing left to distract yourself from the simmer in your blood and the burn in your bones. Looking up you find her staring at you, glasses just beginning to slide to the tip of her nose, and she’s adorable. She’s precious and you wish you could protect her—could keep her from saving this little ball of blue.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper, curling your fingers into fists and clearing your throat. Stepping back from her—away from her—you gather what little of your dignity you still have. What little self-respect might’ve escaped this unbruised. You don’t think about the bag under your desk, or that your phone is in the drawer of your desk—you need space, and distance, and this room doesn’t offer nearly enough. The scent of her is surrounding you and you can taste the rainstorm on your tongue—petrichor, your brain supplies.

Walking away is hard, but necessary.

“Do we have to?” Darkness cracks with her voice, silence shattering—you stop, fists curling at your sides because it’ll only take a word. All your willpower for a word. “What if I don’t want to pretend?”

Clenching your eyes shut, you can imagine how she looks—brilliant, and beautiful, and everything you want.

“I’m not pretending, Kara,” not in the ways that matter, not to anyone but yourself.

“Neither am I.”

Something in her voice makes you turn—something tinsel strong and absolute. You’re right, she is beautiful, but that isn’t everything—it’s never everything. Her suit hasn’t been fixed. It’s not something you think about often, or ever, but having her stand before you with all that red and blue torn and ruined makes your chest hurt. There’s blood stains and smudges of dirt. You don’t realize you’re stepping closer until your finger traces the edge of a rip; your nail grazing her skin makes her shiver.

“This is me, Cat.” She’s soft, like those clouds she tumbled through, and you wonder if she snagged a handful on her way down. Her glasses are gone and her hair is curling wonderfully around her shoulders. “All of me.”

“What’s changed?” You need to know.

“Everything—nothing. Does it matter?” She licks her lips and you can only follow the pink tip of her tongue with your eyes. Stepping forward, she presses into you—you want to say she’s getting dirt, and blood, and alien byproduct on your clothes, but she’s warm, and solid, and feels too good. “What’s changed is I can’t wake up tomorrow and not do this.”

She kisses you; lips conquering yours, though you’re particularly amenable.

“Aliens, terrorists, metahumans; doesn’t matter.” Another kiss.

“I’m alive.” She says it like a declaration, like she’s reminding you. “I plan to keep being alive.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, you can’t stop yourself.

“But I get to decide how hard I fight,” earnest, and genuine, and so close to perfect. “I promise that I’ll always fight to come back.” She steps back and you sway forward—caught in her gravitational pull. Her cape snaps in the breeze from your open balcony, her hair rustling as she looks down at the papers on the desk. The only think keeping them in place the heavy weight of your Montblanc. She runs her finger over the words, feeling each hard press of ink, each excruciating word.

Her eyes are bright, and her lips smiling—just a little. “We’ll cross these out together.”

It’s symbolic, the way she plucks up your pen and marks through the last few lines—scratching them out like they had never existed. Like you hadn’t poured your soul into a goodbye to someone who wasn’t gone. You can’t remember what exactly you’d written, you can’t place the words in correct order in your mind—but it’s a relief, oddly. To know they’re gone; that they were marked out by her hands.

“I’d much rather not have to write them, but,” _but, but, but_. You feel lighter, and less like time exists absolutely, and completely, in your bones. Like seismic quakes and thunderous storms don’t rattle you awake on a calm night because _something_ doesn’t feel right. “But I can work with that.” It’s a plan. A frameless, baseless plan, but it’s something.

You watch her gather the pages carefully. Bricking them softly on the desk top and opening the top right drawer to place them inside. There’s a soft click as the drawer closes and she walks over, smiling just a little.

“I should get home.” Carter’s with his father, but another night in the office won’t do your back any favors. Placing a hand on her bicep you smile when she can’t help flexing—just a little.

“Need a lift?” She says with a downright dashing grin.

“Salacious, Supergirl.” You tease, but step into the circle of her arms, smoothing hands up her chest to dig into the fabric of where her cape tethers to her shoulders. “I’d like nothing more.”

Later, when your ear is pressed to her chest and all you can hear is the strong beat of her heart, you’ll realize how easy it is to forget the press of your pen. The black burn of words on an off-white page. You’ll have Kara’s smile, you’ll have the whisper of her fingers over the backs of your hands, the fan of her breath against your cheeks.

“You’re not going to let Clark live this down, right?”

The bell chime of her startled laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt for @dhaskoi. feel free to follow me on @ **civilorange**.


End file.
